


More Than You

by dinkyrose



Category: Queer as Folk (UK), Queer as Folk (US), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Casual Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Older John, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinkyrose/pseuds/dinkyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tousled blond hair, tight jeans and a black leather jacket, he stood with his hands in his pockets, head cocked to one side smiling warmly in the muted yellow light; he was older by a mile, at least thirty so ancient by Sherlock's standards, military trained and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Sherlock's heart skipped several beats, his hands shook as he raised his cigarette to his lips again and took another deep drag to calm his nerves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've shamelessly re-worked some of the opening scenes from Queer As Folk in this first chapter. Dialogue is a mix from both the UK and US versions. I re-watched them recently and unlike a lot of dramas, I think they have both stood the test of time pretty well.

The night was almost over.

The clubs were spilling out onto the streets, everyone in sight engaged in a last minute bid to find someone and cop off with for the night.

John stood huddled in a doorway kissing frantically, licking and biting.

It had seemed a good idea at the time. The bloke was hot, tall, dark hair tight jeans covering a plush, tight arse. But somewhere between the first slide of tongue and a hand on his prick he got bored.

He just couldn’t help it.

The next hot guy was just waiting round the corner, and if he spent too long with Mr Right Now he might miss him and miss out on the best sex of his life.

But seriously, he was much too old for this shit. At thirty he felt ancient, the average age in the club tonight must have been closer to twenty, probably younger, and If he drove by the local school gates in the morning there was a damn good chance he’d recognize half of them.

It was easy to forget how young he’d been his first time. It was the games teacher, Mr Davis, he was about the age that John was now, muscular and hairy with a deep, gruff voice. John had gone back to the changing room for his football boots and Davis had been in his office. He’d called John in and talked shite for a while about the cup match against some rival school the following week and then, right there in front of John, he’d flicked on his shower, stripped off his clothes got stark bollock naked and stepped under the steaming spray. The weird thing was, John couldn’t remember being scared at all back then, although with hindsight he must have been. Davis had noticed the rock hard boner tenting John’s school trousers, and the bastard had done it on purpose, continued talking as if nothing had changed, soaping himself up with his giant, hairy man-cock on display. John had walked right on in there, fully clothed, stepped into the shower, got on his knees and sucked that cock so far down his throat he almost choked. Youthful enthusiasm, too much tooth and crap technique, soap and spit and water rolling down his chin and the warm bitter tang of someone else’s come.

But none of that mattered, it was the having that was important, to finally be doing it instead of just the crude and completely made-up bollocks the rest of the lads in his year had bragged about.

He should really head back now.

Mike was waiting by the car to drive them home.

“Cheers mate, thanks for that”, he said. He wiped his hand on the side of his jeans, stepped out onto the pavement, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

“But…. I thought we were heading back to yours?”

“Nah mate sorry, I don’t do sleepovers”.

“Well fuck you very much”, the bloke huffed, zipping up his jeans and re-fastening his brown leather belt.

“Hey, you’re welcome”.

John turned, and casually walked away.

And then he saw him.

Six feet of wide-eyed, skinny, teenage perfection softly illuminated by the hazy yellow street-lamp.

God, he shouldn’t, he really, really shouldn’t.

John Watson, you’re a bad, bad man.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Sherlock leant back against the street lamp and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

Make that cigarette he thought with a sigh.

He pulled out his last and clamped it in his ice cold lips, lit it and took a long drag.

It felt like he’d been out here forever, but in reality it couldn’t have been more than an hour or so. It was his first time down what was affectionately known as Anal Street, a stretch of busy bars and night clubs, the hub of the local gay scene. But now he was here, too nervous to even set foot inside a door and just try it, watch the men dancing with no expectations beyond satisfying an idle curiosity. Or so he’d told himself. The reality being he was past fucking desperate, but totally clueless in the art of hooking up with men.

He should stop being such a prat and just ask someone.

This bloke here would do.

He looked old enough to be his father, striding impatiently down the pavement towards him and muttering at no one in particular under his breath.

“Er, excuse me?” he ventured shyly.

The bloke pulled up short. “Christ, how old are you then….isn’t it past your bed time lad?”

“Er no”, Sherlock answered, trying his best not to sound too affronted and piss the bloke off, everyone else he’d seen so far had looked far too intimidating or down right predatory. This was an all-round safer bet. “I’m almost twenty-one.”

“Is that right?” the man said, looking him up and down, and obviously not believing him in the slightest, quite rightly. Sherlock flushed under the scrutiny of his gaze, but still, at least he’d bothered to stop, and so Sherlock decided to push his luck a little further.

“I just wondered…where’s the best place to go round here?”

“Depends what you’re after,” the man said testily, curling his lip while surveying the men spilling out of the nearest bar. “If you want bastards, try in there.” He jerked his thumb to the left, to a pink neon sign that said ‘Skin’. “Or if you rather have a wanker, try in there”. He jerked to the right this time, toward ‘Randy’s’. “And if,” he spat red-faced by this time, “you really want a lying, cheating tight-arsed bloody dick-head, take your pick, they’re all bloody full of them.”

And then he stomped off down the street leaving Sherlock slack-jawed and flushed with embarrassment.

“Don’t listen to that miserable old shit, we’re not all bad you know.”

Tousled blond hair, tight jeans and a black leather jacket, he stood with his hands in his pockets, head cocked to one side smiling warmly in the muted yellow light; he was older by a mile, at least thirty, so ancient by Sherlock’s standards, military trained and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Sherlock’s heart skipped several beats, his hand shook as he raised his cigarette to his lips again and took another deep drag to calm his nerves.

“Had a good night?” the bloke asked casually and sauntered along the pavement toward him until they stood, only inches apart. His eyes roved up and down, taking in every inch of Sherlock’s body in a way that couldn’t have made it clearer just why he’d approached him in the street at chucking-out time on a weekend if he’d tried. Sherlock might have been inexperienced but neither was he an idiot.

He unconsciously parted his thighs and the man smiled up at him wolfishly.

Oh God, he really shouldn’t have done that.

“Yeah?” he stuttered back, pretty sure that had come out like a question and not an answer to anything, sounding uncertain even to himself. Christ, he was an idiot.

“Is that a question?” the bloke aske in amusement. “Because it could be you know, a good night I mean, there’s still plenty of time. You got anywhere to go?”

Sherlock swallowed nervously. “No.”

The answer came quickly. “Wanna come back to mine then?”

It made his stomach swoop, alarmingly.

This was such a bad idea on so many levels. This was moving much too fast, his mind screamed, drowned out by the ‘Oh God Yes’ that was stirring in his pants.

“Okay” he answered shakily, teenage hormones winning the internal battle over common sense.

This was much too easy he thought, there had to be a catch to this, there had to be. It shouldn’t be this easy. His first time out and he was really going to do it. Hook-up, get off, get fucked for the very first time.

Sherlock wondered if the bloke could tell, if it was written all over his face and in his body language.

Virgin.

“Good…. that’s good,” the bloke said, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip. “Oh, and I’m John by the way.”

“Um…Hi?” Sherlock stuttered, voice rising at the end in a question again.

This was so embarrassing. Losing the ability to make basic conversation hadn’t exactly been part of the plan.

“Sherlock…my name is Sherlock…sorry…I…just, sorry…nice to meet you.” He finished lamely, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring down at the ground.

Anywhere but at John.

Nice to meet you?

What the hell was that?

Sherlock kept his eyes to the floor, scraping his toe along an extremely interesting crack in the paving stone. Right about now, John would realize he was just some stupid kid, make his excuses and leave him here. If the weird name hadn’t done it, his stellar impression of a bumbling idiot must have sealed it.

“Well aren’t you something else Sherlock.”

His head snapped up at the obvious heat in John’s voice. “Shall we?”

Sherlock nodded vigorously.

John beamed in approval and gestured down the street toward a shiny black jeep to where a bloke about John’s age leant against the side. Every line of his body screamed impatience. He frowned, brows creasing as he watched them approach, scowling in open disapproval first at John and then at Sherlock.

John opened up the passenger door flipped the front seat, and gestured for Sherlock to climb into the back.

“Oh my god, you bloody well didn’t Watson… put the kid back you utter wanker… you’re trashed, I’ll take him home.”

“Jealous much Mike?” John shot back at him, and a warm palm pressed into the small of Sherlock’s back as he climbed in behind him.

The aforementioned Mike huffed in annoyance, ramming the seat back down and walking round the car to get into the driver’s side instead.

They drove slowly through the late night traffic, John squashed into the back seat with Sherlock, sitting much closer than was strictly necessary brushing soft teasing strokes along the inside of his thigh.

Sherlock swallowed thickly.

He was embarrassingly hard already and the slow deliberate movement had his teeth on edge and he whimpered helplessly as John nuzzled close sucking an earlobe between his lips.

“I’m going to fuck you all night, is that what you want?” he breathed, one hand grasping Sherlock’s chin and tilting his face toward him.

“You don’t have to do what he says,” snapped Mike, interrupting, as watched them both through the rear-view mirror. “He’s always like this on a weekend….Where do you live kid, we’ll drop you off first, no harm done eh?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, heat and want and need burning hot in the pit of his stomach. This was what he came out for wasn’t it? There was no bloody way he was backing off now, not when he was this close. “I want to go with him,” he said defiantly, managing not to sound quite as scared as he felt inside, he flushed with pleasure as John nodded into his skin. “Good boy.”

John’s flat was one of those posh warehouse conversions on the fourth floor of an old factory building only half a mile out from the city centre. Sherlock wondered what the hell John must do for a living to afford these luxurious surroundings, a long leather sofa, an open- plan kitchen in stripped oak and chrome, the biggest flatscreen he had ever seen in his life and old-school arcade machines lined up along the back wall.

But that was only part of it, the rest of the cavernous space was divided off by frosted glass and sliding panels, giving only shadowy glimpses of the rooms that lay beyond.

“Shut the door,” John said, grabbing a bottle of water from his obscenely large double fridge, cracking off the cap and swallowing down the ice-cold liquid in long greedy gulps. Sherlock stood mesmerized, watching as his throat worked, tracing the progress of a trickle of water which bled out from his lips rolling slowly down his neck and chin.

“Well?” John swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and fixed him with a smouldering gaze. He placed the bottle down on the counter pulling the now saturated t-shirt off over his head. He tossed it aside carelessly, picked up the bottle again and bent his head down to pour the rest over the back of his head. The floorboards beneath him were soaked, a pool collecting at his feet. John flicked back up again and shook off the droplets with a shiver while Sherlock just stood there uselessly, gaping at the glistening beads of water running in rivulets down John’s tanned and muscular torso. It dripped down his face, shining like diamonds where it caught amongst his eyelashes and the layers of short blond hair.

What would it be like to run his tongue through the tracks it made, turning salty and bitter as it mingled with his musky sweat?

“Are you coming….. _or going_?” John said again, amused, and just as if he already knew the filthy mental images in Sherlock’s mind, he grasped at the buckle of his jeans and slid the smooth black leather through the soft denim loops, dragging it off with a snap like a whip-crack.

“Or perhaps, you’re coming….. _and then_ going,” he smiled, “Or _coming_ ,” he paused for emphasis and smirked when Sherlock’s breath hitched, “and _staying_ ,” he finished with a sinful grin and pushed his jeans to the floor before stepping smoothly out of them and kicking them aside.

He was naked underneath, his cock blood red at the head, slapping damply against his abdomen, glistening at the tip already.

Sherlock fumbled awkwardly for the sliding metal door at his back, and with a shuddering breath he pushed it hard until it slid home and closed with a loud metallic clang.

This was it, he was really going to do this, tonight, now, with a bloke almost twice his age.

Perhaps it wasn’t the time to mention he hadn’t even had a first kiss.

Sherlock turned around slowly.

“I’m staying.” 

 

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No turning back, no backing out - or is John too much to handle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romantic and sexy first time? Er no, not exactly - Sherlock is clueless and John is a tease.

 

“You seem a little nervous,” said John, “Can I get you anything? Maybe you need something to take the edge off?”

Sherlock still hovered by the closed metal door, shoulders hunched slightly in the way kids normally did when they felt uncomfortable in their rapidly growing skin.

There really was no need. Sherlock was incredible, inexperience written large over every inch of his beautiful body. It was more than intoxicating and he really didn’t have a clue just how gorgeous he was.

Finding him tonight was a genuine act of mercy. One foot in those clubs and Sherlock would’ve been eaten alive within seconds.

John moved back into the kitchen and bent down to scoop two glass tumblers from a cupboard next to the fridge. He filled them with ice from a dispenser on the door and poured two generous measures from a half-full bottle of vodka. Then he cracked open a can of coke from a cardboard pack stacked under the bench and divided it equally between the glasses.

It gave his hands something to do at least.

He was dying to run them all over bare, white skin, but if he moved too fast the kid would turn around and run. He had that rabbit in the headlights look, and John was more than surprised when he’d shut the door.

Brave or merely stupid? Perhaps it was time to find out.

“I’m good thanks,” Sherlock said, and John huffed in disbelief.

“You’re clearly not, I can see your hands shaking from here.”

Sherlock glared at his traitorous fingers and shoved them angrily into the depths of his pockets.

John held out the glass again with a reassuring smile. “ I don’t bite, it’s just a cheeky vodka and coke, here if you don’t believe me, have mine.” He swapped the glasses over, holding out the other instead.

Sherlock considered for a minute, eyes drifting from the drink back up to John’s face. He reached across and plucked the first one, not John’s, from his hand and took a tentative sip. “If you had put something in it, you would obviously offer your own to reassure me, not that I think you did,” he added, blushing adorably, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” John laughed, “How about something to eat, can I tempt you?”

Sherlock shook his head more decisively this time. “Better not. I’m sort of allergic, actually, to loads of things, so I have to be careful. I was at this party last week, and they had these canapé things. My lips were all swollen and I had this awful rash on my face for days.”

On the edge of his nerves, talking shit to stall the inevitable.

“Is that so,” said John with his eyes fixed upon Sherlock’s distinctly un-swollen mouth, which he clamped shut immediately, flushed with embarrassment. “Best to move this along to the bedroom then, I’m all out of finger food fortunately.”

He stepped closer, his bare feet almost silent on the wet wooden boards. “Unless of course, you’ve changed your mind? You _are_ free to leave anytime.”

Sherlock took a large gulp of his drink and started to cough as it caught in the back of his throat. “I…I don’t want to leave…I just got here.”

John’s self-control was about to snap. He was naked, in his kitchen, making idle conversation while sporting a rapidly wilting erection. He had a smoking hot bloke in his flat, a little young, yes, virgin, quite possibly, he’d let that pass for now, and they were standing here talking about allergies and rashes?

No.

Just no.

“Can I kiss you?” he said in a rush, part lust part impatience spurring him on.

“What?”

“I said,” John rapidly closed the remaining gap between them and crowded into Sherlock’s space. He pressed two hands to Sherlock’s hips just firm enough to hold him steady, “Can I kiss you Sherlock?”

John could‘ve sworn the kid stopped breathing then. His eyes went wide, the pupils visibly dilating even as he looked at them. John plucked the glass of vodka from his unresisting hands and dumped it on the table by the sofa.

“Do it.” Sherlock whispered, moving up behind him.

John turned slowly, and stroked his hand down a smooth pale cheek. A bare hint of stubble scraped against his fingertips, Sherlock gave a shiver and melted into the touch. And finally, finally, John’s lips were on him.

It was obvious this was new to him so John kept it gentle at first with the softest of presses, closed mouth, until Sherlock grew impatient eagerly exploring John’s mouth with his tongue. He licked and nipped, all sweet little moans and breathy sighs. Long, dark lashes tickled against his cheek as John guided his head to the side with a firm warm palm on the back of his neck.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do with his hands, John was all warm naked skin against rough denim and cotton and his fingers hovered, not knowing where he should touch him. Eventually Sherlock settled for his hips in a mirror of John’s own touch, and John gasped against his mouth, forgetting Sherlock’s hands were a little on the cold side, most likely from standing in the street half the night.

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered, jerking his hands away and stepping back to break the kiss. A thin string of saliva connected their lips and then snapped.

“Oh no babe, don’t ever be sorry, just means we have a little warming up to take care of. Come back here.”

John grabbed both his arms at the wrist and pulled Sherlock back towards him, rubbing both hands together briskly between his own. The friction sent sharp sparks of heat up his own arms too and a welcome warm glow flowed back into Sherlock’s skin. He flexed his fingers and let go.

“Better?” John grinned.

“Better.”

“Okay then, where were we?”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock was flat on his back on the bed, naked except for a necklace hanging on a black leather thong around his neck, the one thing he would never remove even though the small disc of metal felt hot like a branding iron against the hollow of his throat. His clothes were….somewhere in the living room, discarded in frantic desperation.

He tried very hard to recall the last time he’d been undressed in front of anyone else and came up with nothing. But he realised it must have been years ago, around the time he started high school and things had become a bit complicated, with boys and feelings, warm sticky messes and waking in the morning to soiled bedsheets. He’d kept it to himself and made it his mission in life to avoid the locker room whatever the cost. There was much too high a chance of an inappropriate erection in the presence of his sweaty half-dressed classmates, flecked with mud and dried grass from the rugby field stripping down and stepping under the burning hot spray of the year twelve showers.

John sat astride him, his generous muscular arse pressed down onto the tops of Sherlock’s thighs one hand on the mattress at his waist and the other slowly and firmly stroking Sherlock’s cock to full hardness.

Not that it needed much.

Still, John was thorough.

He could barely breathe with the effort it was taking not to come and he clenched his toes again, curling them deep into the folds of the mattress as John gave a twist on the upstroke and Sherlock fucked up desperately, caught between frustration at the teasing rhythm John insisted on and never, ever wanting it to end.

“Ahh.”

“Too much?”

“Mmm no,” he lied.

_(Too much, not enough.)_

His head was thick with want, making it impossible to think straight. It was maddening and glorious, and John was a god-like genius.

How had he waited so long – making-do with his solo teenage fumbling. Even when he gave himself dead-arm on purpose so it felt a bit like some nameless stranger was wanking him off, it had never felt as good as this.

“Bollocks,” John said flippantly, and don’t you dare come yet we’re not done, not even close."

Why the hell did he have to mention close?

“I’ll try,” Sherlock stuttered, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down on it, hard. Maybe a little pain would help delay the inevitable.

But his hands, John’s hands on him. Oh god he was going to die. His stomach clenched, a spasm of heat curled inside him. John’s wet pink tongue snaked out, tracing over the shallow dips and hollows of the muscles. He sighed in contentment.

“Christ Sherlock, you’re so bloody fit.” John raised his head and smiled up at him. “So,” he began again, as he curled his body over, left hand still sliding up Sherlock’s lube-slick cock, until he hovered, almost nose to nose. “Tell me what you like to do?”

Sherlock’s brain had gone offline somewhat, all zeroed in to one particular act, sensation after sensation washing over him in delicious, hot waves. He shifted his hips and wriggled in impatience, overwhelmed and desperate to come, but John pressed his free hand to hold him steady, a warning for him to stay still. How could he be so damn calm? Sweat slicked Sherlock’s body, his neck and chest glistened with it, limp damp curls of hair stuck to his forehead. Any one would think they’d been at it for hours, when in truth, those clever hands and glorious fingers had pulled him apart within minutes.

John remained infuriatingly contained, perfectly in control, the only outward sign of his arousal widely dilated pupils and a raging erection, long and thick and disproportionately large.

Shit, how could it ever fit inside him, it was….impossible.

Sherlock couldn’t think - what the hell had John just asked him?

He tried, he really tried.

“Um…Science…I read a lot, too much mum says…I’m learning to drive and….”

“No,” John laughed, cutting him off. “I meant…. what do you like to do in bed?”

Oh bugger, thought Sherlock. “This is nice,” he managed, rather hopelessly.

And it was, a little too nice in reality. The filthy, wet noise of John’s hand on his dick was more than his brain could process.

“Are you a top or bottom?” John asked, like Sherlock hadn’t just said something unbelievably stupid. He adjusted his weight and swapped over to his other hand. The muscles in his thighs flexed, as his body lifted and resettled, legs spread slightly wider, pressing down again, higher this time. Dense, rough pubic hair brushed against the top of Sherlock’s thighs. The motion made John’s cock bob, the sticky blob of pre-come adhering to his well-defined abdomen. Sherlock ached to lick it off, take him in his mouth and….suck?

“Top,” he said, quickly, imagining himself sprawled between John’s parted legs.

John raised both brows in shocked amusement. “Well that’s….. a surprise.”

“And bottom?” Sherlock added. Some men only liked it one way or the other, if he said the wrong thing maybe John wouldn’t want him.

Fuck or be fucked, Sherlock would take it either way.

“Oh, right, so you’re versatile?” A small smile played around John’s lips.

“And ambidextrous,” Sherlock blurted, “Which was really confusing at first, I could never work out which hand to hold my fork in.” Oh god, why couldn’t he just keep his stupid mouth shut.

“Uhuh.” John thumbed over the head of his cock, smoothing out the gathering fluid. “What about rimming, are you up for that?”

Sherlock gulped hard. “Um yeah, of course, I love it,” he lied again.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise, pushed himself up and sat back on his heels. Then a small mischievous smile turned his mouth up at the corners. “Go on then, do me first.”

Shit, no, he couldn’t. John would know straight away what a clueless little virgin he was in reality. The kissing had been bad enough. Not John, he’d been perfect, but Sherlock’s performance had been less than impressive, not knowing where to angle his head, clashing teeth and spit dribbling down his chin. And what was rimming anyway? Sherlock rode the simultaneous waves of exhilarating pleasure and abject humiliation.

“Sorry, what do you mean…. _exactly?”_

John just shook his head and sighed. “Saved by the bell, eh?”

John’s phone buzzed madly on the bedside table and he let go of Sherlock’s dick and stretched over him to pick it up, transferring it to his right ear before picking up where he’d left off with barely a break in pace, practised, sure fingers gliding over the slick, hot skin. Sherlock hissed and arched off the bed, fisting his hands in the white cotton sheets.

“Hello?” John said gruffly. He clamped the phone between shoulder and chin weighing Sherlock’s balls in his newly free hand. Sherlock clenched his teeth hard, but not hard enough to stop the needy, desperate whine from crawling up his throat. Oh god.

“Harry? I’m kind of in the middle of something…can’t you…. shit, when? Is it out yet? Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner….alright I get that….I know how long it can take….an hour ago….are they both okay?”

He was going to come, really, really going to come this time.

John’s grip had grown inexorably tighter and the strokes had grown faster unconsciously, John’s finger on his balls sliding back a touch too far.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Sherlock’s stomach clenched again, the intensity almost painful and in panic he forced his hand from its choke- hold in John’s rich Egyptian cotton to tap desperately on his arm to attract his attention.

Please god no.

The periodic table, boiled cabbage, his grandma’s hairy upper lip, Mycroft’s baggy underpants, the stringy matted hair that clogs up the bathroom plug hole, hole, hole, John’s finger touching his hole, tracing around the puckered sensitive edges, probing. If he slipped it inside, Sherlock would explode. The hair on John’s thighs, the rough and heavy weight of him, his massive cock standing to attention, stiff and ready and leaking a sticky trail, nudging, nudging, hot in the crease of Sherlock’s pelvis.

Finger, round and round.

Hand stroking down, up down.

Slow, slow, fast fast, slow.

Playing out the rhythm of some primal filthy dance all over Sherlock’s body.

He squeezed his eyes closed, his trapped legs gave a twitch, his hips an abortive thrust into John’s slippery palm.

“Yeah…I’ll be there….just as soon as I’ve called a taxi….no I can’t bring the car I’ve been drinking….are mum and dad there, yeah?.....Just call me when they’re gone….Oh I should stop being such a child? Well that’s rich coming from you….”

“John….J… _John_ … _please_ I, _stop_  I, oh god….oh god….I… _ahhh”_.

And just like that Sherlock finally reached his limit and came all over John’s hand, and his stomach, his chest and a little under his chin as well.

“Jesus Christ did you have to?” John yelped, and switched his attention from the phone call back to him. “I told you not to do that,” he huffed in irritation, flicking globs of come from his fingers.

A little splattered weakly on the side of Sherlock’s cheek, the rest John wiped off on the sheets at his side.

_“Who’s that? Are you bloody shagging on the phone, you dirty fuck.”_ A disembodied female voice not-so-politely enquired.

“It’s just some bloke, don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’m not _up_ him,” John snapped, “His names Sherlock by the way, say hello to Harry Sherlock.”

He pressed the phone to Sherlock’s right ear. “Hello?” he managed shakily and John snatched it back, clamping it once more beneath his chin.

“Right, gotta go Harry….see you in ten.”

He flicked it off and tossed it on the bed.

John shifted his weight and climbed off Sherlock’s legs, stepping off the bed to rummage on the floor beside it. A pair of rumpled boxers landed squarely on Sherlock’s chest and seconds later his t-shirt  followed and a balled-up pair of socks, also his.

“Er right,” said John, scrubbing a hand through his thoroughly messed-up blond hair. “Thanks for that Sherlock but you’re gonna have to go, like, right now.”

“But I can’t,” Sherlock stuttered, scrambling into his pants despite his protests, not wanting to believe this might be over.“My parents think I’m staying at a friend’s house tonight.”

“Oh god, you live with your parents?”

“Well, yeah…I’m in sixth…I’m in Uni….I am moving out though, I want to rent in town…eventually.”

“Shit.” John paused in the action of pulling on clean pants, and stepped up closer to the bed again, to stare at him more intently. “Just how old are you exactly?”

“Twenty.”

“Liar.” John snapped back. “Try again.”

“Nineteen then.” Sherlock said. That sounded even less convincing than his first answer.

“Eighteen?” He winced, biting his lip when John sat down on the bed again, beside him.

“What is this,” John laughed, “A fucking countdown to launch?” 

Sherlock sighed and his shoulders sagged in defeat. What was the point in lying, he could tell by John’s face he would never want to see him again. Not after he’d fucked it all up so badly by coming all over himself, and John, and the bed.

“I’m seventeen….. and that _is_ the truth,” he added, choosing that moment to pull his t-shirt over his head to hide his bright-red face.

“Bit young for all this aren’t you?”

“Not really. In fact no, no I’m not…. not at all.”

“Fuck it then, if you’re okay I’m okay…everyone has to start somewhere I guess.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” John said, pushing him back until he lay flat against the pillows again, “That I won’t kick you out like I probably should.... but I have to nip out for an hour, you can come if you want to…but not like the last time eh?” He winked and then fished in the bedside drawer, finding what he wanted and throwing a packet of wet-wipes onto Sherlock’s stomach. “Best have a clean-up, before that starts to itch.” A thumb ran over the crusted mess on Sherlock’s chin. “Then hurry up and dress, the cab’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Where are we going exactly?” Sherlock called as John disappeared into the living room again, and emerged seconds later throwing Sherlock’s jeans onto the bed at his feet. He scrambled to pull them up, rising to his knees so he could hitch them up over his arse. He cast an eye around for his belt, couldn’t see it. He decided it didn’t really matter, John had implied they’d be coming back here.

“To meet the family,” John offered by way of explanation. “The brand new addition, I’m officially as of one hour and five minutes ago, an uncle….. Uncle John.”

 

~*~ 


End file.
